


forget.

by DictionaryWrites



Series: Patrician & Clerk [9]
Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Complicated Relationships, Established Relationship, Head Injury, Kissing, Manipulation, Worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-10-21 06:32:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17637584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: On a trip to Uberwald, Drumknott is injured.





	forget.

It is raining outside, and the rain batters against the tall windows of the little castle bedroom, racketing against the roof. Flashes of lightning occasionally split the dark red skies, and now and then Vetinari hears the rumble of thunder just overhead. This is Überwald, and this sort of weather is natural for an autumn night, the wind howling as the rain continues to buffet Lady Margolotta’s castle.

Lying prone in the bed, Drumknott looks even paler than usual – Margolotta’s Igor had neatly stitched up the wound on the side of his temple, but he still needs time to sleep and to heal, and the milk of the poppy Igor had given him had made him very, very drowsy. This, in the beginning, had not stopped him from trying clumsily to clamber from his bed, until Vetinari had caught him by the shoulder and pushed him bodily down into the bed.

He had waited for some five minutes, his palm pressed hard against Drumknott’s chest, before Drumknott had stopped struggling, and had let his head fall back against the pillow. He hadn’t recognised Vetinari. Confused and mumbling, the opium had made him scarcely aware of who he _was_ , let alone who Vetinari was.

Vetinari sits very still in the chair beside the bed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, his fingers steepled beneath his chin, and he watches Drumknott sleep. His chest rises and falls beneath the thick, quilted duvet, and his spectacles[1], which have one cracked lens, rest on the end table beside the bed.

He hadn’t actually been alongside – he had been speaking quietly with a few Überwaldian diplomats at the great council hall in Bonk, and Drumknott had been outside, examining the plaques in the gardens. Apart from Vetinari, but still within his line of sight, and the gust of wind had caught him entirely by surprise, brushing off some roof tiles and cracking Drumknott right on the side of the head, despite the speed of his reflexes, despite how fast he’d moved to try to dodge away.

It’s almost more frustrating than it would be if someone had actually tried to attack Drumknott. If someone had attacked him, there would be a party to punish, to blame: there would be something to do in _response_.

There is nothing to do here.

“He will be alright, you know,” Margolotta says from the doorway. She leans against the doorway, her arms tightly crossed over her chest, and her fingers are tucked into the cuffs on the opposite sleeves, as if it will keep her warm, as if she isn’t naturally going to be cold. “Igor is very good.”

“I know.”

“You look like you would be pacing, if you had the privacy.”

“I would not.”

“Havelock,” Margolotta says quietly, and her hand touches against his shoulder. She had moved across the room in complete silence, barely disturbing the air through which she’d passed, and her fingers are cold against his shoulder. There are, at the very most, five people who might touch Vetinari without his express prior permission. Only _three_ of these people would be permitted outside of a genuine crisis situation. “It was a nasty head injury, and he has sprained his wrist, but only the right one. He uses his left to write, doesn’t he?”

“No,” Vetinari says quietly. “He is left-handed, certainly, but I believe he was beaten at school for writing with his left hand, and subsequently, he writes with his right.”

“Depraved practice,” Margolotta mutters.

“He says he doesn’t mind,” Vetinari says, aware that he has had very little occasion to tell anybody anything about Drumknott. It doesn’t bother him, per se – he is not one for personal discussions, does not wish to advertise the careful privacies of his life in the public sphere, but there are moments, he supposes, where you have things you wish to share with others, not because of any attention that might be bestowed upon you, but simply because those things bring you joy, and your instinct is to share that joy. So fleeting a feeling it is, after all. “He says that all of the best stationery is designed for right-handed users anyway.”

There is a momentary pause. “He is very _odd_ , Havelock,” Margolotta says.

“No more than your librarian.”

It is a natural, easy riposte: he hears Margolotta’s quiet laughter.

“You… Hm.” A second passes, and then Margolotta says, “I think the servants put your things in separate rooms. I will have them bring your luggage in here, hm?”

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t suppose he needs to.

There is an uncomfortable shift of anxiety in his stomach as he looks down at Drumknott, his expression slack in unconsciousness. It is not the same as glancing down at Drumknott as he sleeps in the bed beside Vetinari back in Ankh-Morpork, curled up against him, breathing softly. This is _uncomfortable_. He had been—

Not distressed. Vetinari does not have time for emotions such as distress.

But he had been caught off-balance, lacking in his usual sense of control, had felt so utterly powerless to see Drumknott sprawled on the grass, so much blood dripping down his cheek and congealing thickly in his hair… Leaning forward, Vetinari gently draws a little of Drumknott’s fringe back from his face, and unlike when he lies in bed beside Vetinari, where nothing disturbs his deep and easy dreams, he stirs.

He lets out a low moan, his eyes fluttering open, and one of his hands gropes blindly from beneath the sheet. Vetinari takes hold of it, feels his weak fingers, and as Drumknott awkwardly tries to wriggle toward the edge of the bed, Vetinari’s other hand whips out, gripping him by the hair to keep him there.

 _“Sir_ —” Drumknott slurs desperately, and Vetinari shifts to sit on the edge of the bed instead of on the chair. Drumknott buries his face in Vetinari’s lap, seemingly incognizant of the bandage wound around one side of it, and Vetinari hesitates, his hands hovering over Drumknott’s head, but already he’s slackening again, going limp against his thighs.

He _aches_ , looking down at Drumknott. He was never meant to feel quite this _important_.

“He calls you sir even like this, hm?” Margolotta asks. “Kinky.”

Vetinari glances up at her, and something must show in his face, although what, he could not say: he wears the neutral mask he always wears, but Margolotta’s shoulders loosen, and she looks at him with a kind smile pulling at her lips.

“I will tell the servants to bring your things in here, and get you some tea,” she murmurs, and then she reaches out, touching his shoulder again, squeezing this time. “Don’t _vorry_.”

“Your accent slipped,” Vetinari says, and Margolotta pats his cheek.

“Well, so did your composure, _darlink,_ ” she replies with a saccharine smile, and he watches as she walks from the room… He looks down at Drumknott, and his fingers touch against the bandages against the side of his head, feeling the roughness of the gauze under his fingers.

He hopes it doesn’t scar.

Leaning back against the headboard, he lets Drumknott lie like that, with his head in Vetinari’s lap. He’ll be mortified, if he remembers, later on. Vetinari suspects that he won’t. He sits like that, awkwardly poised on the edge of the bed, his shoulders back, Drumknott’s head a weight on his bad thigh, for over an hour.

It _hurts_ , but—

It would hurt more, Vetinari distantly suspects, to dislodge him.

\--

Drumknott doesn’t remember anything before the gust of wind that had knocked him down, the next morning, and when he tries to ask, Vetinari kisses him on the mouth. He doesn’t do that, as a rule. Vetinari, a man almost entirely disinterested in sex, doesn’t see the appeal in kissing, but he does this time, kisses Drumknott so tenderly and so firmly that Drumknott’s aching head _spins_.

Drumknott forgets, after that, to ask after that which he doesn’t remember. Or—

He doesn’t _forget_ to. But to care so much about distracting him as to _kiss_ him, it must be important; Vetinari mustn’t want him to ask.

He doesn’t ask.

Vetinari kisses him again before they rise from bed.

 

[1] Drumknott does not and has never needed spectacles, and wears them at Vetinari’s behest, as they make him look more vulnerable than he is.

**Author's Note:**

> Hit me up [on Dreamwidth](https://dictionarywrites.dreamwidth.org/2287.html). Requests always open.
> 
> I run a [Discworld Comm](https://onthedisc.dreamwidth.org/), and there's also [a Discord right here.](https://discord.gg/b8Z3ThH)


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